A Serious House On Serious Eath
by Madison Dyann
Summary: Sequel to "The Joker and the Thief". April sweet is coming in, let the feast of fools begin! Inspired by Arkham Asylum: A Serious House on Serious Earth by Grant Morrison.
1. A House

Located just outside Gotham City, the Elizabeth Arkham Asylum for the Criminally Insane, commonly know as Arkham Asylum, has had a long and brutal history. The dark history began in the early 1900s when Amadeus Arkham's mother, for whom the asylum named after, having suffered from mental illness most of her life, committed suicide. Amadeus then decided, as the sole heir to the Arkham estate, to remodel his family home in order to properly treat the mentally ill, so others might not suffer the fate as his mother.

Upon telling his wife and daughter of his plans, they moved back to his family home to oversee the remodeling. While there, Amadeus Arkham received a call from the police notifying him thatMartin "Mad Dog" Hawkings, a serial killer, referred to Amadeus Arkham by Metropolis Penitentiary while at State Psychiatric Hospital, had escaped from prison, and sought his considered opinion on the murderer's state of mind. Shortly afterward, Amadeus Arkham returned to his home to find his front door wide open. Inside, he discovered the corpses of his wife and daughter in an upstairs room, with Mad Dog's alias carved on Harriet's body.

Despite this family tragedy, the Elizabeth Arkham Asylum for the Criminally Insane officially opened that November. One of its first patients was Mad Dog, whom Amadeus Arkham insisted on treating personally. After treating Mad Dog for six months, Amadeus Arkham strapped him to an electroshock couch then deliberately and purposefully electrocuted him. The staff treated the death as an accident, but it contributed to Amadeus Arkham's gradual descent into the madness which he began to believe was his birthright. Eventually, Amadeus Arkham was incarcerated in his own asylum, where he died.

Today, Arkham Asylum is where those of Batman's foes considered to be legally insane are incarcerated and is currently run by Jeremiah Arkham, Amadeus' great-nephew. Arkham does not have a good record, at least with regard to the high profile cases; inmates escaping on multiple occasions and those who are 'cured' and released only to re-offend weeks later. Furthermore, several staff members have committed serious crimes while working at the asylum.


	2. Changes

When I woke up, the blankets had been kicked to the floor and the sheets were soaked in sweat, as was my hair. I cursed global warming and the current heat wave which had engulfed all of Gotham City. It didn't help that my air conditioner had broken at the end of the summer last year and I hadn't bothered to get it fixed. Now, in the mist of a record heat, every repair company was backed up with calls. The heat also caused a rather large increase in crime, so I was a bit too scared to leave the winds open at night. My only source of relief was a couple of old box fans, both of which were placed in my bedroom.

Ill rested; I got up and took a cold shower. I quietly endured the agony as I blow-dried my dim red hair, which I had inherited from my father. Again, I had trouble finding clothes that were suitable for work, but not too oppressive in the heat. In the end, I settled on a black pencil skirt and a light blue silk blouse. When I looked in the mirror, I consciously avoided looking at my right arm and the ugly scar. I grabbed my purse and keys and stepped into a pair of heels before leaving my already sweltering apartment.

Outside wasn't much better. Normally, I walked to work but the past week I took the bus due to the extreme heat. Wayne Tower was easy enough to get to since it was practically in the center of Gotham City. Built in 1938, the limestone building was seventy-eight stories tall and that doesn't count its seemingly bottomless basements. I had never been down to the sub-levels of Wayne Towers, but my boss frequently felt the need to recite numerous horror stories of people being lost forever in the labyrinth of dark rooms. If you believe the stories, then there are about a hundred bodies rotting beneath the main lobby.

I passed though the main doors and stopped a moment to appreciate the air conditioning before continuing to the elevator. I had been working at Wayne Enterprises for almost three years now. The job offer came at an unusual time and at an unusual setting. When the elevator doors dinged open, I was joined by ten other people in suits. I filed in and pressed the button marked 50. The elevator was almost empty when it stopped on the fiftieth floor and I was the only one to step out. When I first began working at Wayne Tower, I worked on the tenth floor as an assistant's assistant. Basically, I stapled and sorted papers and fetched coffee. I got a few small promotions; each time I was moved up a few floors. About two years ago, I got a really big promotion, which put me on the fiftieth floor.

Even though it wasn't the top floor of Wayne Tower, it was the top floor of Wayne Enterprise. The top twenty-odd floors were leased out to smaller companies and public departments. The fiftieth floor was home to the leadership of Wayne Enterprises. The floor consisted of a large board room; the CEO's of Wayne Enterprises, Lucius Fox, office, and the owner of Wayne Enterprises, Bruce Wayne. Technically, I was the secretary for the entire floor but Bruce Wayne took up the majority of my time. Board meetings did not happen that often and Lucius Fox was perfectly capable of taking care of himself. Not to say that I didn't like my boss, Bruce Wayne. He was, after all, the one who had initially offered me a job and we had developed a sort of friendship of the years. He just always seemed a bit preoccupied witj something else.

I took my seat behind the large oak desk. Before doing anything else, I went about organizing the small mess of papers which were left over from the day before. I wasn't the most organized person in the world, so I used any extra time in the day to straighten the mess which had accumulated.

A lot of things had changed in the past three years. The most noticeable was probably my appearance. My hair, which was once disheveled and unevenly colored, was now trim to just above my chin and I had even overcome my obsession with dyeing my hair. My clothes were no longer raggedy or dirty. I had my own house. I had my own bed to sleep in. I paid taxes. Even my attitude had changed slightly. My pessimism had been replaced with light-hearted sarcasm which I had learned to control. But the biggest difference was that I was no longer stealing things for the mob. I was no longer a criminal.

After a few hours, I finished my current pile of work before leaving my desk. Prior to my trip to the elevator, I walked down the short hallway to Bruce Wayne's office. I door was already open, so I knock quietly on the door frame to get Bruce's attention, who had his back to the door, looking out the window reading a stack of papers. He turned his chair around to face the visitor. "Hello, Marie." He said. Bruce gave me a small smile while briefly looking up from the paper.

"I'm headed to lunch. You want anything?" This was practically a routine. I asked the same thing every day even though I always received the same answer.

But today wasn't routine. Bruce didn't give me his usual answer of 'no, thank you'. "Actually, I think I might join you." I stood in the doorway, confused, as Bruce Wayne put down the papers and got up from his desk. Together we walked to the elevator. "Is your air conditioner still broken?" Bruce asked as we stepped into the elevator. I knew he was secretly making fun of me.

"Unfortunately. Is it that obvious?" I was beginning to wonder if my lack of decent sleep was having an effect on attitude.

"Well, you are a bit more hostile in the morning than usual." He said with a sympathetic laugh. "My offer still stands, by the way."

"And my answer is still, currently, no. But another day in this heat, I might have to accept that offer. It would be nice it get a decent night's sleep, even if it is in Wayne Manor." Ever since I told Bruce about my lack of cold air, he's offered me one of the many guest rooms in his newly re-built mansion. I wasn't sure why I kept denying him. We had already overstepped the boss/employee line. We continued on our way out of Wayne Tower and walked down the street. I was still confused as to why Bruce wanted to have lunch with. I was pretty sure I wouldn't like the explanation.


	3. Relationships

Thankfully, we didn't have to walk far to a small restaurant. We sat inside the slightly crowded café to escape the heat. The minute the elderly waitress disappeared with our order, I addressed my confusion. "This is a change of pace. I don't think we've ever had lunch together." Three years ago, I would have rudely interrogated Bruce until he told why he wanted to have lunch with me. I was a bit paranoid back then. But with my change of attitude, I danced around my internal question.

"There's a first time for everything." Bruce's attention, and mine, was then given to one of the televisions in the café. Mike Engel, who had managed to survive being kidnapped by the Joker, was still head anchor of Gotham City News. At the moment he was discussing the current endeavors of Charles Blakely. Blakely owned one of the many companies which competed with Wayne Enterprises. Blakely Industrial was new and extremely small compared to Wayne Enterprises but they had recently established a regional office in Gotham; Wayne's home turf.

"I admire a man who vows to rebuild the city and starts by building a golf course." Bruce scolded with his own sense of sarcasm. Blakely had managed to acquire a number of tax breaks by promising to invest a majority of the profits from his Gotham office back into the community. It had been two years and so far none of the records showed any philanthropy on Blakely's part. Just the construction of an expensive golf course and country club on the north side of Gotham. However, Wayne Enterprises was practically famous for its altruism. Not only did the company donate large sums of money to charities and the community of Gotham but also to numerous organizations around the world. Currently, Bruce Wayne and his company were working on remodeling the train system his father had built decades earlier.

From there, the conversation digressed into business and politics. Mayor Anthony Garcia had survived reelection, with help from Bruce Wayne's campaign donations, and Jim Gordon had stayed on as police commissioner. With the death of Harvey Dent and Rachel Dawes, something which I never mentioned around Bruce, Henry Bullock had been elected as District Attorney. With the gradual downfall of the mob, for the first time in a long there was little to no corruption in Gotham's government. Nonetheless, Gotham's economy wasn't the best and even with the still ever present Batman, crime was still problem.

Sometime though our lunch, Bruce got to the point. "Can I ask a favor of you, Marie?" His tone was cautious.

I stopped eating and put my fork down. "You can ask, but that doesn't mean I'll do." I was pretty sure whatever he was going to ask didn't involve my job.

"I have been invited to a dinner party by Charles Blakely and I need a date." Bruce said quietly, mentally preparing himself for my response.

"No. Certainly not. No way. Do you not remember what happened last time?" As I gave my initial rejection of his request, my mind was racing to find an excuse. But Bruce knew of my lacking social life, so any lie would not get pass him. "Why are you even going? You just spent twenty minutes complaining about the man." I said in my attempt to put the attention back on him.

"Keep your friends close, and your enemies closer. Come on, Marie. It's not like you have anything better to do." Bruce said, pushing his empty plate away and adjusting his jacket. A normal girl probably would have been offended by his last statement, but it was the truth.

"I can think of a hundred things I could like to do before I went to another one of your dinner parties as your 'date'." I emphasized the last word by mockingly using air quotations.

"Please, Marie. Are you saying that you're not comfortable enough in our relationship –? "

"Bruce, no normal person would call our casual sex with each other a relationship." I said in small whisper. I was quite aware of the numerous consumers in the restaurant who had recognized Bruce and were who probably trying to eavesdrop on our conversation.

"Our friendship then. I could really use your help here, Marie. I hate these things just as much as you do." Bruce casually laid more than enough money on the table and we continued our conversation outside in the heat.

"So what? Are your saying we should be miserable together?" I had abandoned my original defensive tone for a more peaceful one.

"Maybe. And who knows, if you pretend to have fun, you might just have some on accident." Bruce said with a smile once it was obvious that I had given in.

"Did Alfred tell you that?" I said with a quick, sincere laugh.

* * *

><p>By Saturday afternoon, I had considered calling Bruce and telling him I had changed my mind. But instead, I drank a small glass of cheap wine to cure my nerves and got dress. My dress, which I had found the day before, was a lively indigo color and made out of a thin, silken fabric. The neckline was modest and the dress was cut about an inch or two above my knee. I was never one to show much skin. I left my hair alone after I straightened it. I put on a matching jewelry set, which I found in the back of my closet, buried underneath some clothes. I put the bracelet on my left wrist and only a small ring on my right hand in hopes of not bringing attention my scar.<p>

In my nervousness, I had managed to get ready an hour early. I had to pour the bottle of wine down the sink to keep from drinking the entire thing. I spent a whole twenty minutes staring at myself in the mirror to determine if there was anything I was forgetting. I wasted the last half hour lounging on the couch, watching television. I was still there when someone knocked on my door. We complement each other on our attire as were took the elevator down. As usual, Bruce was wearing a suit, but his current one was more polished than his workday attire.

When Bruce totaled his Lamborghini, the same one I had stolen, he purchased a less-flashy car, but I was sure it was just as expensive. The small saloon car was a gleaming black color accented by big silver rims and handles. The inside was much more flamboyant that the outside.

The dinner party was held at an Italian restaurant which preoccupied the entire first level of a ritzy hotel in downtown Gotham. Bruce and I were the last ones to arrive and a round of greetings and introduction occurred almost immediately. As we were seated, I took noticed that I was dressed appropriately, which gave me a wave of confidence. There were five other people at the long rectangular table. A Mr. and Mrs. Fitzgerald sat directly across from us. I barely recognized James Fitzgerald as a member of the City Council. He was a plump man of perhaps fifty with thinning gray hair and glasses. Susan Fitzgerald was smaller than her husband and her blonde hair was cut short. She looked nice enough.

Next to Mrs. Fitzgerald was a Chelsea Huntson, a woman in her mid-forties who was the president of the largest private bank in Gotham. The same bank that once a safe-haven for mob money. She had a stern face, long brown hair and was wearing a very austere dress. She did not have the same friendly aurora as the woman next to her did. Erik Brewington, a financial investor, was sitting to the right of Bruce. He was perhaps the same age as Bruce. He didn't seem very interesting so I didn't pay much attention to him.

Charles Blakely said to the left of me, at the head of the table. He was thirty years old, and, from what I had seen of him on television, he was your typical, arrogant businessman. He had started Blakely Industrial by using his large inheritance to buy small, troubled companies. Once bought, he would fire the entire workforce and hire a new one at dramatically lower wages. His sole goal in life was to make as much money as possible. Blakely's hair was a shade lighter than Bruce's and a bit shorter. His conceited smile and overconfident tone reinforced my previous notion of him.

"So happy you could join us, Bruce." Blakely said as if he and Bruce were old school friends. Eventually, the conversation turned to include me too.

It was grim Ms. Huntson who addressed me first. "So, how long have you and Bruce been dating?" I hated her the moment she opened her mouth.

I was briefly aware of the tension that had become visible in Bruce's face. "Oh, Bruce and I aren't dating. We're just…friends." Of course the questions didn't stop there. Everything from my love life, family, and job were brought up. And each time I was asked a personal question, I answered while trying to put the attention back onto someone else, mainly Bruce. Like when Susan asked, completely out of curiosity I'm sure, if I would ever consider getting married. "Well, maybe one day. But I'm only 21, so I have plenty of time. Or at least more time than Bruce." My innocent poke at Bruce received a laugh from the whole table.

The only real annoyance of the night was Charles Blakely. When he wasn't talking business and politics he spent the rest of the night flirting with me. He was apparently very excited when he learned Bruce and I were not together. For Bruce's sake, I remained polite and good-mannered but by the end of the night it was increasingly difficult to ignore Blakely's unwanted advances.

My agony was put to an end when dinner and the chit-chat ended just past midnight. Even in the dead of night, the heat was still unbearable. "So, home?" Bruce asked as he drove away from the restaurant.

"No, let's go to your place." I said, taking hold of Bruce's free hand. His only response was a simple smile.


	4. Promises

I awoke in the middle of the afternoon. Even though I didn't do much sleeping, it was nice to wake up to a cool environment. As usual, Bruce has slipped out of the bed in the middle of the night, probably the moment I fell asleep. I pressed my face into the large pillow, not wanting to leave the oversized, comfortable bed. After a few minutes of trying to force myself back into sleep, I finally decided to get up. I didn't bother putting clothes on as I went directly to the bathroom and turned the shower on. I removed the make-up which I had neglected to wash away the night before.

Instead of putting my dress on, which was thrown carelessly on the floor, I donned a pair Bruce's black sweatpants and a simple white tee-shirt; my usual morning-after attire. I had to tie the drawstring on the pants to keep them from falling off. There were also too-long and I walked on the end of the pant legs. Before going in search of breakfast, I straightened the room up. I picked the clothes off the floor and made the bed. I didn't want my random overnight stays to cause Alfred more work.

My affair, if that's what you would call it, with Bruce Wayne started about a year ago. It basically consisted of casual sex a few nights a month and nothing more. Neither of us was looking for a romantic relationship. We were effectively using each other. Alfred was the only person who knew, though I had a sneaking suspicion that Lucius Fox knew too. I was slightly shocked and a little unnerved when the twist appeared in our relationship; I never saw myself as a person who mixed 'business with pleasure' so to speak. But then I realized that I wasn't sleeping with Bruce just because he was my boss. I trusted the man. He was a good friend. Plus, the fact that I was physically attracted to him didn't hurt either.

As I was walking through the halls to the kitchen, my cellphone rang. I dug the small phone out of the pocket and answered it without looking of the number. "Hello." I said as I walked into the kitchen. Bruce was sitting at the oversized island, eating a bowl of cereal as Alfred put away groceries. I recognized the voice that emitted from the receiver.

"Hi, Marie. It's Gordon." Bruce Wayne and Jim Gordon were the only two people I could ever considered to be my friends. Though, Gordon was more like a father to me. Back when I was on the wrong side of the law, I knew Gordon had to jump through hoops to keep me out of jail. However, some cynics probably believed that he was enabling my bad behavior, which was slightly true.

"Oh. Hi, Jim." We made small talk for a few minutes as I took a seat next to Bruce and poured myself a bowl of cereal. I asked about his kids and he asked me about my job. He didn't seem too adamant to address the reason for why he had called me.

"Marie, I was wondering if you could come down sometime today." He seemed unsure of his request.

"Down where? The MCU?" I asked, stirring my cereal with the spoon. I looked at Bruce, who seemed much too concerned with his breakfast. I knew he was eavesdropping but he was trying desperately not to appear so. Normally, when I had a phone call, he would start using a mixture of sign language and miming so we could carry on a separate conversation. The second conversation usually ended with me getting irritated and leaving the room.

"Yea. We need to talk to you." _We?_ I thought to myself.

Two minutes later, I was pushing the phone back into my pocket and starting on my breakfast. A weird silence filled the kitchen as Bruce and I finished our meal. "Jim Gordon wants to talk to me." I said, twirling my spoon around in the leftover milk.

"About what?" Bruce asked nonchalantly. He got up and carried his bowl over to the sink before returning to this seat.

"I don't know." It was barely a whisper. By that time, my eyes had fallen to the scar on my arm. It was such a harmless word. It has so many positive notions around it. But when the word was etched into my skin and with the artist behind it, I couldn't help but feel that smiling was a sign of defeat. As if it symbolized the destruction of my sanity. Or what was left of it.

* * *

><p>Under much distress, I asked Bruce to take me home. I used my impending meeting with Gordon as an excuse. My apartment was still sweltering and I regretted borrowing Bruce's sweatpants. Slightly pressed for time, I quickly opened the window and changed out of the borrowed clothes. Unfortunately, the majority of my wardrobe was in need of washing, so I had to settle on a pair of jeans and a thin tank top. I emptied all the essential objects into my pockets and left my purse on the counter.<p>

I took the train to the other side of the city to the Major Crimes Unit of the Gotham Police Department. As usual, the MCU was a chaotic mess. I recognized a few cops and detectives but they were some new people. I ignored the commotion and walked straight to Gordon's office and knocked on the door. Gordon had aged a little in the past three years, mainly his hair had grown grayer. We greeted each other and Gordon shut the door behind me.

"What is –?" I stopped mid-sentence when I saw who else was in Gordon's office. The Batman stood in the corner, out of the direct view of the door. "What did I do?" I asked, looking from the Batman to Gordon and back.

"You didn't do anything, Marie." Gordon said, leaning against a bookshelf in the opposite. Apparently it wasn't appropriate to sit down in this situation. "We have something to ask you." Gordon then went on to talk about Arkham Asylum and the large amount of escapes which had occurred recently. He continued on how they had investigated the building and staff and found nothing.

"So, Arkham has a security issue. What does that have to do with?" I asked getting slightly annoyed. I hadn't moved from my position by the door and I was prepared to leave if the conversation went somewhere I didn't want to go.

Gordon and Batman exchanged a look before Gordon continued. "We need someone on the inside. Someone who could figure out how the inmates are escaping. We need your help, Marie." I quickly turned around and grasped the door handle, prepared to storm angrily from the Commissioner's office. However, the Batman, who had is hand pressed against the door, prevented me from opening it. I gave him a dirty look before turning back to Gordon.

"Do you remember what happened last time you asked for my help? I. Nearly. Died." I said though clenched teeth. I didn't understand how or why Gordon would ask me something like this. "Why don't you send in one of your people?"

"Because you've already been there. You know what to expect." Gordon said as if it was obvious.

"No. I've been physically and mentally abused by an insane clown. I've never been locked up with an entire asylum." One insane person was bad enough but a hundred of them were beyond my stress level.

"You won't be in any direct danger. The asylum has plenty of security." Gordon said trying to ease my worries. It didn't work.

"I thought this was about your security problem?" I said sarcastically.

"I promise, Marie." Gordon took two steps closer to the Batman and me.

"Yea? I believe you made the same promise to me three years ago and we all know how effective that was." I didn't want to cause Gordon any aguish but there was no way the Commissioner could protect when he wasn't around.

"I promise." Batman said in his low, rough voice. Gordon and I turned our attention to him as Batman removed his hand from the door.

"This was your idea, wasn't it?" I said, poking the Batman in the chest accusingly. I turned the handle and opened the door a few inches. I gave Gordon one last look. "Someone better call Bruce Wayne and explain to him why he won't have a secretary for a while." I said before I darted out the door.

* * *

><p><strong>AN**

Thanks for all the reviews! You guys are great!

And as a disclaimer, if you read anything that sounds somewhat familar, I probably don't own it. The only I really own is Marie.

Thanks!

** -Madison Dyann-**


	5. Committed

A few days later, I found myself sitting on the floor of my apartment, flipping through case files of insane people. _We have a plan._ I reassured myself very few minutes._ Just stick to the plan._ The plan was to pass me off as an insane person who killed a random man. Gordon's people were already in the mist of rewriting my past, or at least the last three years of it. Basically, there were removing all the good things and adding in a bunch of paranoid, psychotic things. They had even let me choose my own specific disorder.

Insular paranoia was simple paranoia added with strong anti-social and avoidant behaviors. I picked insular paranoia because I was already a bit passive-aggressive as it was. Though the therapist who I talked said I could bend the rules a little. The fact that there was no real checklist for insanity would be my one saving grace since the doctors at Arkham Asylum wouldn't even know that I was an imposter. I had been given numerous case studies of paranoid people. Even a few taped interviews. I didn't know what to expect when I watched those so I rented a few Hollywood movies so I could still sleep at night.

My fabricated past stated that I continued my life of crime in even after my release from the hospital. Only that I had grown more violent until I eventually killed a man for no apparent reason. So in order to play the part of a deranged lunatic, I dyed my hair. I just went to the store and brought the oddest colors. Navy blue, hunter green, crimson red, black. Nothing too bright. I emptied all the bottles in my hair with little care. The outcome didn't look too bad, considering it looked like a five-year-old scribbled crayons all over my head.

It was a little past midnight when I lifted myself off the floor and head to the kitchen to make another cup of coffee. The entire afternoon and night, I had been switching between a cup of coffee and a glass of wine. The coffee was to keep me awake and the wine was for my nerves. Nevertheless, I was a little inebriated by the time I decided just to stick with coffee. Even though I had stumbled on my way to the kitchen, I did notice the shadow in the corner. "I thought I locked the window." I said, slurring my words a bit.

"You did." I turned just as Batman stepped out of the shadow of the doorway. It was odd seeing the Batman, standing in all his glory, in the middle of my kitchen.

"You know, it's not very polite to climb though people's windows without their permission." I had to resist the urge to offer him a cup of coffee because I was sure it the wine talking. "What do you want?"

"How are you?" He didn't move at all. The Batman just stood in my kitchen as if it was an everyday event.

A loud sigh escaped my lips. I thought about telling him about how scared I was. I wanted to tell him about every little worry and concern that had appeared in my head of the past few days. I even wanted to address the anxiety and discomforts from my previous dance with insanity. But I didn't. "I'm fine. For now." I lied.

"Do you know how exceptionally brave you are?" Again with another question and no answer.

"I hate it when people call me brave. I'm scared shitless." I said before taking a seat on top of counter. I folded my feet under me and wrapped my hands around my cup of coffee.

"Fear sometimes makes people act in fearless ways." I traced the rim of the cup with my finger as silence filled the room between us.

"Did you come here for a reason or is just a slow night?" I asked when the silence became unbearable. I looked up from my coffee but the kitchen was empty. The Batman was gone. I was alone. I left the files on the floor and inspected every window before carrying myself to bed.

* * *

><p>Wednesday morning I found myself in the back of a police car. It was rather uncomfortable sitting on the leather seat with my hands handcuffed behind me. I was wearing an especially ugly orange uniform. The only make-up I had on was a week's worth of eyeliner, which was smudged and smeared around my eyes. It made me look even paler. My hair was a ratty mess and I didn't bother worrying about it.<p>

As we got closer to Arkham Asylum, my heart began to beat faster. Gordon, who was driving and the only other person in the car, spent the entire trip giving me words of encouragement. I ignored him and endured the trip in silence. I hadn't talked to Bruce since the fateful morning and I was beginning to wish I had called him. But I pushed him from my mind as the car passed under the Arkham Asylum sign.

Arkham rested on the top of a hill just outside the city. The old Arkham home was still used but numerous additions had been made to the original building. The lawn was neatly mowed but there was little landscape other than a large oak tree which grew to the right of the house. It was planted too close and the limbs scratched the side of the building. The once red brick had turned a grimly brown color and dense ivy covered the majority of the north side of the building.

As the car rolled to a stop in front of the large oak doors three orderlies dressed in white scrubs walked out to greet me. "Disregard anything I say or do from now on." I said to Gordon quietly while keeping my head down. Gordon just nodded before getting out and opening my door. When it was obvious that I wasn't going to get out of the car voluntarily, the orderlies decided to drag me out. This ended in the first orderly being kicked in the face. After about five minutes of struggling, I was forced from the car and though the Asylum doors.

I decided to give up my struggle as I was processed into their records. Gordon gave me a sympathetic smile, which I greeted with a blank stare. I then watched as Gordon turned around and walked out the door. That was the last I saw of him.


	6. Reruns

My cell was a modest ten by ten concrete square. I had a small window but I had to balance on my toes to see out of it. All I was able to see was sky. My bed was a thin mattress on a short metal frame. It made an annoying squeaking noise every time I moved. The pillow, sheets and blanket were a sanitary white. Positioned in the far corner was a grim looking toilet and sink. I was thankful for the short brick barrier in front of toilet which provided a small amount of privacy. The door was made of thick metal and could only be open with a specialized key card, which only the doctors' and guards carried. When I looked out of the small square window in the door, all I saw was another similar white door across the hallway, which was painted a bleak, pale yellow.

I took a seat on the stone floor at the end of the bed after I tested the durably of the door by kicking it a few times. The room was cold and smelled faintly of bleach. I once again folded my bear feet under me since the guards felt it was necessary to confiscate my shoes in fear that I would strangle myself with the strings. After a few minutes, I found myself immensely bored. Surely they didn't expect me to remain in this room for the rest of my life. That thought alone would likely make me lose my mind. Then I remembered that I was supposed to relish being alone, as part of my mental illness. But, seriously, they could at least give me a book or something.

I was in the mist of reviewing our plan for the fiftieth time when the door creaked open. An older orderly, escorted by two armed guards walked into my cells. With the appearance of the guards, I felt it was stupid to struggle as I was once again handcuff, but this time my hands remained in front of me. I was roughly pulled to my feet by the biggest guard and the orderly locked shackles around my ankles too. "Well, that's no fun." I words slipped from my mouth in a rather loud whisper. I guess they didn't appreciate being kicked in the face too much.

I was lead down the hallway and out of the cell block. The orderly, who was a middle-aged man with thinning red hair, walked in front while one guard kept a rather tight hold my arm and the other guard brought up the rear. We took the elevator, which I believe was in need of repair because it slow and shook constantly, up three floors to the fifth floor. Our journey ended at a door marked **Dr. Arkham**. I mentally cursed my luck. How did I manage to be assigned to the chief psychiatrist in the facility? The one who ran the damn place.

I kept my head down, as not to appear interested, as the orderly knocked loudly on the door. Jeremiah Arkham, the great-nephew of Amadeus Arkham, the founder, was only thirty-seven years old but he was already a highly accomplished psychiatrist, or at least that's what the file said about him. He had apparently written numerous articles and conducted numerous researches on mental illness. Arkham was a tall, thin man with thick framed square glasses and dark, short hair. He was wearing a collared shirt and slacks under his long, white lab coat. His appearance and white, thin smile unnerved me a bit. There was something not quite right with Jeremiah Arkham.

I was pulled into the room by the guard and forced to sit on a metal chair which was bolted to the floor. It was clear the room wasn't Arkham's official office. The furniture only consisted of a chair for me and a chair for the shrink. Though, the room was considerably more cheerful than my cell. Random posters and diagrams lined the walls, reminding me of a high school classroom. It was brighter too since the blinds to the two large windows for pulled open, allowing the noon sun to shine into the room. The guards and orderly departed after attaching my chains to the chair, preventing me from even standing up.

I kept my head down and remained silent as I waited for Arkham to address me. My plan was to remain silent during very session with my shrink. And if I did say anything, I would lie. Silence and lying were the only cards I felt comfortable to play. "Ms. Victoria Bradley. How are you today?" His tone was relaxed as he flipped though my file.

_I just got put into an insane asylum. How do you think I am?_ I remained silent with my eyes downcast.

When I didn't answer, Arkham looked up from my file and looked me over. He waited another minute or two in hope of an answer until it became clear that I wasn't responding. "Victoria, this –"

"That's not my name." I said in a rude and agitated tone. I kept my head down.

A few seconds later, after scanning my file, the therapist continued. "Marie, then. This would be a lot more beneficial if you participated. We are going to meet every day during your stay here. Now, you can either let me help you or you can sit there in silence for half an hour. What's it gonna be then, Marie?" It sounded like Arkham had to repeat his little speech quite often. I assumed silence wasn't an uncommon event during therapy sessions.

I kept my silence. When it was obvious this would be a one way conversation, Arkham, who appeared slightly annoyed, removed his glass and placed them in his pocket. "Okay. Since you refuse to speak to me, I'm going to continue to address you by your proper name." He closed the file and knocked on the door, while never taking his eyes off me. The door opened and the familiar guard walked him. "Please take dear Victoria here to the common area. I think she could use some social interaction."

* * *

><p>Clearly, this was my punishment for not answering questions. The common area was the entire north end of the fourth floor. It looked very similar to college common areas; only instead of students it was full of insane people. There was a small television screwed into the wall, a ping pong table, a small reading area, and numerous shabby sofas. About seven guards were placed around the perimeter of the common area, in case someone's insanity got the best of them.<p>

I found myself a seat on an empty couch in front of the television where I sat with my legs pulled up to my chest. Every few minutes, my eyes would drift from the television screen to a different inmate. Most acted predominantly normal but I noticed that a few were muttering to themselves. A couple had nervous ticks. I was left alone until someone else took a seat on the couch next to me. She was a small woman with bright red hair, which reminded me of my own, only hers was long and well kept. The woman was probably only a few years older than me and was rather good looking. She, at least, didn't look crazy.

At first, I didn't think she was going to acknowledge me. "Are you new here?" She said in a polite voice after looking at me for a minute. I simply nodded yes. "Hi, I'm Pamela Isley." She extended her hand for me to shake but I just stared at. My possible rudeness was forgotten before it was even noticed when a man, another inmate, picked the remote up and changed the channel. Even though I could only see his back, I knew who it was. "Hey, I was watching that!" The woman said angrily, standing up.

"And now you're watching this." The man said matter-of-factly. He had yet to notice me.

"Change it back!" Pamela said. She reached for the remote which was still grasped in the man's hand.

"Nope, nope, nope, nope, don't want to." The man said mockingly, which only caused the woman to become even more upset.

"Guard!" Pamela screamed at the top of lungs, which was seemingly completely ignored by the rest of the inmates.

A guard stepped forward from his place by the window. "What's the problem?" He asked in a rather bored voice.

"Don't look now, Sonny Jim, but the Plant Lady has gone whackers again." The man sang before erupting in a fit of laughter.

"He started it. I was just sitting here." The woman protested.

But it didn't matter because the man had thrown the remote into the air. "Never mind. I've already seen his episode. I hate reruns." His mood was apparently affected as his tone became less comical. And then he turned around.

The Joker hadn't changed much in the past three years. His hair was still green but cut shorter and his make-up was still a smeared mess. The orange uniform made him look even more clownish. When his eyes met mine, a wave of recognition flowed across his face, followed quickly by a smile and a laugh. This laugh was one of his more high-pitched, eerie laughs which sent a surge of shivers down my spine. Even though I wanted to get up and run away, I kept my position on the sofa and returned the Joker's stare.

"Speaking of reruns, hello there my dear Marie." The Joker leaned over me and lifted a finger to my nose, which he pushed as if it was button. "It's nice of you to join us." He then doubled over in another outbreak of laughter.

"Get out of my face, clown." I said smoothly once the Joker had recovered from his fit. But his recovery was brief. My defiant statement had caused an even more intense series of laugh, one which caused his to grip the arm of the sofa for support. I then became aware of the lack of distance between us so in order to remedy that, I extended my leg, which hit the Joker in the upper chest and caused him to fall backwards.

My violent physical contact earned me an escort back to my cell. I could still hear the Joker laughing as I was practically carried to the elevator.


	7. Secrets

The rest of the week went by in a similar fashion. My therapy sessions consisted of nothing but Arkham babbling on about his own speculations on why I refused to talk to him. His excuses ranged from my apparent problems with authority, which was visible by my disconnection with my mother, to the idea that I was so socially backwards that I didn't know _how_ to talk to anyone. If he would have sat in on my time in the common area, which mandatory since I still refused to participate in the therapy sessions, he would notice that I interacted quite a bit with Pamela Isley.

I kept my comments short and vague as to maintain my fake mental illness. It didn't matter to Pamela, who did the majority of the talking and was able to continue with little help on my part. The Joker kept his distance the first week. He never spoke or came too close but I knew he continued to watch my every move. After a day or two, I was hoping he would do something; the staring was getting a little annoying and unsettling. I had a feeling the Joker could see though my charade. Though, the Joker did eventually grow out of his gawking stage.

In the center of the Arkham Asylum complex was a small patch of lawn. The plot was closed in by the asylum additions and tall, thick barbed wire fences. The lawn, which consisted of a narrow dirt lane which went around the perimeter and modest landscaping, was also crawling with guards. On my second day at the asylum, I walked the entire trail twice, looking for any weak spots in the fence which may have made escape possible. I didn't find anything.

Sunday afternoon, after my therapy session, I was once again taken to the common area. As I had heading to my usual area on the sofa, the Joker intercepted me and pulled me outside. "What the hell?" I said, surprised by my body's sudden change in directions.

"Let's go for a walk, sweetheart." I didn't struggle as I was pulled along the dirt path. After a minute, the Joker threw his around my shoulder and pulled my closer. "I know your dirty little secret." He whispered in a teasing voice.

I looked up into his painted face, searching for more meaning to his comment. "What are you talking about?"

A small laugh escaped the Joker lips. "Please, Bradley. Just because you are able to fool Jeremiah and the orderlies, doesn't mean you can fool me. I know you too well." Together, we took the first turn in the path. "I wouldn't trust Jerry by the way."

"Why?" I said, assuming by 'Jerry' he meant Dr. Arkham. But more importantly, was the Joker giving me advice?

"The man's nuttier than Crane, he just hasn't realized it yet. " Again the Joker laughed.

My mind then wondered to my given task. It had been almost a week, and all I had learned was Arkham Asylum looked like a legit and secure mental facility. I had nothing to tell Gordon when he visited me tomorrow. I needed to find something. "How are the inmates escaping, Joker?" I asked bluntly.

We stopped walking and the Joker turned me around to face him. For once, his face showed no expression what so ever. I had clearly surprised the Joker with my unusual question. A long minute passed in silence. "Like I said, kid, Arkham's nuttier than a squirrel." The Joker then digressed into a fit of laughter.

* * *

><p>Telling Gordon the news was a whole other problem. Gordon said he would visit me on Monday, but I couldn't just start a conversation when I was supposed to be an anti-social paranoid. Gordon would be the one person my insane self would be suspicious of since he was the one who put here. I knew I had to write him a note. So, I smuggled a book and a crayon (inmates weren't allowed to have access to pens or pencils) back to my cell. I ripped a blank page from the book, and wrote what I had learned from the Joker.<p>

When visitation time came around, I was escorted downstairs to the first floor. I kept my usual cold posture as my hands and feet were chained together once I was placed at the small round table. Gordon took a seat across the table from me and remained silent until the orderlies and guards were far out of hearing range. "How are you going, Marie?" He asked quietly.

I didn't respond, but I gave him a small smile as an answer. I sat in silence as Gordon weaved through a variety of topics; from the weather to his own children. I allowed my eyes to wonder over the other visitors and their corresponding inmates. Visitors were only allowed twenty minutes and Gordon's time was almost over. As he was standing up to go, I slide torn page across the table. Gordon swiftly picked it up and stuffed into his jacket pocket. He turned around and walked away without another word.

* * *

><p><strong>AN**

Sorry about the wait and the short chapter. I just moved into my dorm room so I've been busy.


	8. Escape

Hell broke loose before Gordon and the MCU could do anything about it. It was a few minutes passed midnight and I was on my way to sleep. Unfortunately, I never made it. My doziness was pushed away when my door swung open. All cell doors had electronic locks along with manual ones so when the heavy door opened it was accompanied by a short buzz. Only, there wasn't just one buzz. From my place on my bed, I assumed that every door in my cell block had been opened due to the amount of noise.

I didn't dare sit up as I watched shadows break the light which had flooded into my room. I was sure the shadows, which moved across my doorframe at rapid and uneven intervals, were those of my fellow inmates running to some kind of freedom. A few seconds later, my theory was confirmed by the loud, heavy sounds erupting from alarms which were placed at randomly along the ceiling. They were equipped with red lights but I was unable to see them since I was still lying safely in my bed.

I seriously thought about shutting my door and remaining in my room. It seemed like the safest option as opposed to wondering through an anarchic asylum. But then my mind wondered to all the bad things that could happen if I locked myself in my room. Fire quickly came to mind. So, in the end I decided my best bet was to a find a way out of the asylum all together. That would take longer than it took to say it in my head.

The hall was empty by the time I found the courage to step out of my room. My bare feet made little sound against the tiled floor as I slowly walked to the end of the cell block. The floor was cold as was the air around me which was also filled with silence. The sirens had suddenly shut off. The cell block was separated from the rest of the hallway by a gate and security check point, which was always home to an on-duty security guard. The guard was still there when I finally made it to the exit. He was young, early thirties, with receding blonde hair. The small puddle of blood produced by his head wound was overshadowed by the one generated from the numerous holes in his chest.

I didn't notice him at first; not until I stepped in his blood with my bare feet. The sudden appearance of liquid underneath me nearly caused me to fall to the ground. The guard was probably caught by surprise. His gun wasn't anywhere to be found, so I continued on my way unarmed. As I rounded the corner towards the stairs, second thoughts about leaving my cell grew in my mind. Windows all along the hallway were broken and pieces of glass littered the ground. Also covering the floor and walls were random streaks of red. I never let my mind call it blood. I avoided looking behind me because I never I was being followed by my own bloody footsteps.

When I finally took hold of the stairwell door, the lights shut off. The whole hall was dosed in darkness for a full ten seconds before the security lights came on. The hall, and I assumed the rest of the building, was shadowed in ghostly, dim yellow light. The recessed lighting caused a number of eerie shadows to spread across the walls and tiled floor. The stairs were also casted in the ghoulish light, so it took me longer than usual to find my way down the stairs. Unfortunately, it was all for nothing. The ground level door was sealed shut. Not only was it locked but someone had placed what looked to be a mixture of desks and filing cabinets in front of the door. All I could see though the same window besides furniture was ugly tiled floor. I couldn't see anyone.

I was forced to reorganize my plan. I had to get out the asylum but the front door wasn't an option at this point. The exit in the common room lead to nowhere but a confined garden and would probably be crawling with inmates and guards at this point. I knew of no other exits. So I switched my goal. I had to get to safety. Safety was away from the murderous insane. I could go back to my cell but that had the potential to backfire. The stairwell seemed quit but it was an enclosed area and I could become trapped. Finally, my mind went to the roof. It was off of the way and those wanting to escape wouldn't wonder to the roof seven stories. The only way of escape from the roof was to jump to your death. I thought it to be the best place to hide.


	9. Silence

I retraced my bloody footsteps and climbed the stairs taking precautions not fall in the dim lighting. Somewhere in the distance, deeper in the maze of the asylum, I heard a banging noise but I ignored it. I was almost back to my starting point, the third floor, when I heard voices. They were coming from the landing above me, so I coward to the ground against in fear of being seen. I crawled up a few steps until I was able to see the owner of the voice.

The voice itself was frantic and terrified. The owner was a man; another guard. I couldn't make out any facial features in the dim lighting and because the man was on the ground, flailing his arms around as if he was having a seizure while yelling something about spiders. Standing next to the man, looking down on him, were two other men. One was an inmate still in his orange jumpsuit like me. The other man was taller and thinner. Even though he was dressed in a wrinkled dark, three-piece suit, I knew he was an inmate. Jonathan Crane was one of the inmates I made a direct effort of avoiding. His usually untidy hair was now combed back and thick framed glasses were perched on his long nose. Once I recognized him, I immediately started to back down the stairs.

"What'd you do to him?" The unknown inmate said in a very unintelligent voice.

Crane calmly removed his glasses to clean then. "I merely helped him visualize his innermost terror, which is obviously arachnophobia." My breathing quickened as I was almost out of their sight.

The inmate scratched his head. "A-whack-a-what?"

Crane let out a loud sigh. "Arachnophobia! Fear of spiders, you dimwitted dropout!" He yelled before kicking the guard in the face, causing the screams and thrashing about to stop. Without another look, I darted down to the second floor landing and out of the stair well.

I hadn't been on the second floor since I was committed. The majority of the floor wad devoted to the medical and mental care of the patients. There was a sick bay, which was used for everything from common colds to serious injuries. Back in the day, it was even used for lobotomies, which were now proven to have no medical benefits. Next to the sick bay, a rather large pharmacy was stationed. Not being too familiar with medicine, I was unsure of what took place in there but I knew it was the produce of the small pink pills I had been forced to take since my arrival at the asylum.

The second floor was also home to numerous storage closets full of extra mops and linens and similar things. It was in one of these closets I found socks and shoes along with a complete set of non-uniformed clothing. I wasn't sure whose they were and they were a bit big but it set me apart from the inmates, which would hopefully prevent from being shot or killed by the police once they arrived. The jeans were black with white paint stains and were too long so I stepped on the ends when I walked. The brown shirt was also too long so I tucked the extra length into the top of my pants. Even though I did my best, instead of looking like an insane person I now looked like a homeless one.

I heard nothing but silence as I stepped out of the storage closest and back into the empty hallway. Apart from Scarecrow, the other inmate, and the two guards I hadn't seen or heard anyone. Something about that bothered me. Surely, the police had been notified and were already here. So, where were they? Or the other inmates? And what about Batman? If the police weren't aware of the situation, then I hoped Batman was at least. He was the one who promised me no harm. And this was a situation that could definitely be harmful to my health.

I wasn't sure what compelled me to it but I soon found myself drawing on the white wall with a marker I found in the storage room. My drawing skills were very primitive but I feel like I got my message across. I had drawn a quick sketch of the asylum's façade before adding a stick figure with strongly resembled Batman on the roof. The picture wasn't to scale and Batman was about the same size of the entire asylum. In the corner I added my initials. The picture was my signal to Batman on where I would be if he ever showed up. I figured he would be able to decode it since he was practically a detective in his own right.


	10. Ambush

I decided to use the stairwell on the opposite of the building since Jonathan Crane still occupied the one I had come from. I left my drawing behind and rounded the corner, walking away from the medical center. The sound created by the heavy boots was deafening compared to that of my bare feet against the tiles. I stayed away from the walls and the ghoulish light.

I could see the stairwell door. I thought I was being observant and aware. I thought I was being smart. But maybe the crazy people had the upper hand on me because they have a different thought process. Maybe I couldn't think like a crazy person because I wasn't crazy. Or maybe I just sucked at being insane because it seemed like I was always caught off guard.

This time they came from behind. I didn't hear them but that was probably due to my noisy boots. A body tackled me to the ground. Judging by their attacking style and their weight, I felt it was safe to assume it was man even before he flipped me over onto my back. I couldn't make off any of his facial features in the darkness even though his face was only inches from mine. I was on the verge of questioning the murderousness of his behavior before he clasped his large hands around my throat and tighten his grip.

I tried to kick the man off, but his weight and knees against my thighs were too much. As my throat began to burn, I threw my arms up, in search of the man's face. Either he was tall and my arms too short or I was searching in the wrong area because I was unable to come into contact with any vulnerable skin. The more I struggle the tighter his grip on my throat became. It came to point where I thought he was going to break my neck. The entire time he was strangling me, not a single word or sound emitted from his mouth. All I heard was his breathing and my lack of ability to.

Then I was blind. My vision turned to pure white for a second before black drops started to soak through. Off somewhere in the distance of my mind, I heard, 'Loosen up, tight ass." It was then followed by an all too familiar laugh only this one seemed to echo throughout my skull. Then a BANG filled my eardrums followed quickly by a painful rush of air to my lungs. I didn't even notice the blood that splattered on my face until later. Along with the presence of oxygen and the face paint came the disappearance of the weight which had pinned me to the floor.

After the fit of coughs subsided, the first thing I noticed was the light. The macabre lighting had been replaced with the regular, bright lights. Only they weren't stable. The light flickered at random intervals but I was still able to make out my savior. His short, green hair was combed neatly back and his face was covered in a new layer of paint. His suit was different from what I remembered. It was a darker shade of purple and was more form fitting than his previous ensemble. The only imperfection I was able to make out amongst the chaotic lights was a number of wrinkles which suggested that it had been carelessly folded and stored away.

The next thing I noticed was the gun which the Joker held casually in his right hand. We didn't take our eyes off each other even as I instinctively raised a hand to my still burning throat. I knew there would be bruising. There always was. Then just when I thought it was safe to lift myself off the floor, the Joker began to laugh in his usual manner. I decided the floor was a safer place to be. After a moment, I risked a question. "What's so funny?"

When he finally got his giggles under control, he managed to say, "The chokes on you." His joke was followed quickly by another round of laughter. With what I was sure was a sour face, I pulled myself to my feet and headed for the stairs. I didn't get very far before I was pulled into an awkward embrace. The Joker wrapped his arm around my shoulders and pulled me against him so we were both facing the same direction. I exhaled rather loudly at the predictable turn of events. "Where do you think you're going, darling?"

I was about to respond when another voice entered the conversation. "Let her go, Joker." My mind reset to three years ago as the Batman stepped out of the shadows and into the still hectic lights. I was having deja vu. I was relieved to see the Batman but being a hostage again as the Joker and him traded words wasn't in my plan. In response, the Joker tightened his grip around me and let out a small laugh. After a few more moment of flickering, the lights finally gave up and returned to their ghoulish state. But none of us moved. We stood in the eerie light and stared at each other. Finally, the Joker spoke.

"I see you received the free ticket we sent you. I'm glad. I did so want you to be here. It's been too long, Batsy. No calls. No letters. You and Marie are awful at maintaining friendships." I made a small attempt to remove the Joker's arm but it didn't result in much. Then I saw something move in the darkness behind the Batman. Multiple movements.

"I've been dying to ask you a question." The Joker continued. "All it takes is one bad day to reduce the sanest man alive to lunacy. That's how far the world is from where I am. Just one bad day." My eyes were scanning the space behind the Batman until I was finally to make out what was moving in the shadows. I opened my mouth to warn him, but it was quickly covered by the Joker's hand.

"You had a bad day once, am I right? I know I am. I can tell. You had a bad day and everything changed. Why else would you dress up as a flying rat? You had a bad day, and it drove you as crazy as everybody else... Only you won't admit it! You have to keep pretending that life makes sense, that there's some point to all this struggling!" The Joker took a step back. I could only make out five inmates in the hallway behind the Batman but I knew there was more. I began to wonder if I had been used as bait to lure the Batman to an apparent ambush. And the Joker continued to distract him.

"God, you make me want to puke. I mean, what is it with you? What made you what you are? Girlfriend killed by the mob, maybe? Brother carved up by some mugger? Something like that, I bet. Something like that... Something like that happened to me, you know. I... I'm not exactly sure what it was. Sometimes I remember it one way, sometimes another... If I'm going to have a past, I prefer it to be multiple choice! Ha ha ha!" As the Joker stepped back with me, the inmates moved closer to the still stationary Batman. I began to twist my head in circles, trying to evade the Joker's hand longer enough to warn the Batman.

"But my point is... My point is I went crazy. When I saw what a black, awful joke the world was, I went crazy as a coot! I admit it! Why can't you? I mean, you're not unintelligent! You must see the reality of the situation. Do you know how many times we've come close to world war three over a flock of geese on a computer screen? Do you know what triggered the last world war? An argument over how many telegraph poles Germany owed its war debt creditors! Telegraph poles! Ha ha ha ha HA! It's all a joke! Everything anybody ever valued or struggled for... it's all a monstrous, demented gag! So why can't you see the funny side? Why aren't you laughing?" The Joker then digressed into a fit which echoed off the walls.

My anxiety level had peaked but the time I able to wriggle free enough to yell out two words. "Behind you!" Several things happened after that. The mob of inmates rushed forward as the Joker pulled me towards the stairs, leaving the Batman alone with the insane criminals. Only I was going to go with the Joker calmly. I elbowed to him rather roughly in the side before aiming higher and hitting in the face. I didn't look behind me as I ran for the stairwell door. I never slowed my pace as I hurried up the stairs.


	11. Doctor

I lost count of how many times I fell running up the steps. When I fell for the last time, I didn't bother getting back up right away. The stairwell was silent except for my heavy breathing. I lay awkwardly on the stairs, waiting for some danger to leak into my surroundings.

There was blood on my face that wasn't my own, my throat was still burning, and my body would soon be riddled with bruises from contact with the stairs. I ran a shaking hand through my multicolored hair. I felt a bit bad for leaving the Batman alone to deal with a large number of homicidal lunatics but he had a better chance of surviving them than I did. My goal was still the roof so before I could fall asleep on the steps, I pulled myself up and continued on my way.

After a few meager minutes, I stepped onto the seventh, and final, flight of stairs. I stood in front of a yellow painted door labeled 'ROOF ACCESS'. I placed a hand on the rusting metal handle and turned it. The door didn't move. A loud groan echoed throughout the stairs as I stared at what was probably the only locked door left in the entire asylum. After giving the door a satisfying kick, I went the only way I could; down.

I decided to go down only one floor to the sixth. If there was another roof access point, it would be on the top floor. The sixth contained another cell block, so I walked as quietly as I could in case any inmates remained in their cells. When I was half way through the empty block, a noise reached my ears. A noise that graced my senses with its presence. The sound of sirens had somehow found their way through the thick, stone façade of the asylum and into my ear drums.

By now, I had recklessly abandoned all caution and was now running through the halls, looking for any exit to the outside. But I couldn't find one. Every unlocked door was a dead end storage closet. Instead, in my hurry to find a door, I ran into Jonathan Crane. Actually ran into him. We were both unprepared for the impact but Crane managed to remain on his feet unlike me. I landed on my back but immediately started to crawl away.

Crane seemed unfazed by our collision and just smoothly straightened his suit without acknowledging me. "Ms. Bradley, this is a…surprise. I thought you would be dead by now." I had reached the opposite wall and I attempted to use it to pull myself up. But that was before I saw the person standing behind Crane.

Doctor Jeremiah Arkham appeared out of where three feet behind Crane. He was dressed in his usual work attire, khaki pants with an ugly tweed sweater under a long white lab coat. He looked as if this was a just another day at work. His attire didn't relate the madness around him. But the look in his eye, the look that was already there which gave Arkham a slight appearance of a mental flaw, was now intensified. To put it simply, he looked insane.

Crane, having noticed my attention had been directed to something over his shoulder, began to turn around. But before he could get a clear look of the newcomer, Arkham bashed him over the head with what seemed to be an abnormal amount of face from a doctor. Crane collapsed to the ground, and Arkham quickly stepped over his body and closed the gap between him and me. I didn't know what to do. Was U supposed to run away or say 'thank you'?

I decided to stick with tradition and run away. I had barely made it to my feet before Arkham grabbed me. I punched and kicked and pushed but the more I struggled the tighter his grip became. Before I knew it, I was being dragged back towards the stairwell by the doctor. I somehow managed to force myself from Arkham's hands but only for brief second before I felt a force pull on my disheveled hair.

Arkham began ascending the stairs with no concern for my inability to see where I was stepping with my back to the stairs. My left heel hit the first step, and I feel backwards. The doctor paid no attention me and continued to climb the stairs with my hair in his hand. A scream escaped my lips as I was pulled upwards. It wasn't until we reached the seventh floor platform did Arkham pull me, who was now crying from the pain, onto my feet. I didn't have enough energy to even attempt to escape. My vision was obscured from the tears and my entire body ached from my being dragged up the stairs.

Along with the vertical stance, a new presence was felt. It had happened to me too many times in the past but this time was different. The Joker had been the only person to ever hold a knife to my throat. Now, Jeremiah Arkham had become the second person. The doctor had yet to speak a word as he opened the door to the roof and forced me across the threshold.


	12. Murder

The first thing that caught my attention was the wind. It was constant at this height and more of an annoyance than a relief in the still going heat wave. I had all but forgotten about the obnoxious heat in the midst of the asylum's air conditioning. I could still hear sirens and the sound of a helicopter was barely audible above the sound of the wind. I could see the flashing red and blue lights of numerous police cruisers in the dark. But I had more important things to think about. The first being the knife Arkham still held against my throat.

I probably should have been used to having a piece of sharpened metal directed at my exposed neck but it was Arkham's demeanor that had me uncomfortable. When the Joker threatened me with a knife, or at all, he was always in control of himself. He may have been insane but there was always some thought behind his actions; however the length of the thought process varied. Every act of violence was meant, everyone act was committed on purpose. There were no 'accidents' with the Joker.

But Arkham? The doctor was obviously anxious. Pulling me up the stairs had been harder on him than I first thought. I could feel his chest fall and rise quickly as he tried to catch his breath. The hand which wielded the knife wasn't steady and the tip had pierced the skin under my chin numerous times before Arkham readjusted his grip on it. He wasn't in control of his actions. He didn't appear to be in control of anything.

The doctor dragged me away from the exit and into the middle of the wide roof. Another wave of tears began streaming done my face. These were due to fear and the sharp wind cutting into my vision. I had no clue as to why he would take me up to the roof just to kill me. I made a small movement to pull away from the doctor, but that only caused him to tighten hold around my neck and shoulders. We were face against the wind. After a good five minutes of standing in silence, a voice, along with a gust of wind, reached my ear.

I could exactly make out what the voice said but I did recognize it. It belonged to the masked man who had appeared out of the darkness ten feet in front of my captor and me. Silhouetted by the barely visible flashing police lights, Batman took two quick yet cautious steps forward, narrowing the gap. Arkham, seeing the apparent danger to his safety, tightened his hold on his knife and placed his horizontally against my throat.

"What do you want, Arkham?" Batman's voice reflected the confusion that had been running through my mind for a while now.

"I want you dead." The doctor yelled over the wind in a dark tone.

The Batman took another couple of steps forward, closing the gap to about six feet. "Why did you release the prisoners, Arkham?" He asked, ignoring the doctor's previous answer.

"I had to get you here somehow." Arkham then let out a short and hallow laugh. "Releasing one at a time didn't appear to concern you all that much. Instead of you, Gordon sends her." The doctor gestured towards me before taking a quick step back. He also increased the pressure on the knife and I forced myself not to look, encase blood started flow.

Instead, I stared at Batman. His black cape, which flapped in the wind, wasn't really that comforting so I raised my eyes. I settled on his face. He was close enough that I could make out the brown of his eyes. The eyes seemed so familiar but my brain wasn't allowing me to make a connection, if was one. My mind was too busy shouting at the Batman to save me. Another part was screaming obscenities at him for getting me into this mess. And a much smaller part of my mind was dedicated to finding a way to save myself.

"Why do you want to kill me?" Batman asked in an attempt to keep the doctor's attention on him and not me.

Arkham scoffed. He apparently thought the answer was obvious. "Because you're ruining my hospital. My _family's_ hospital! I use to be able to help people. As my uncle did. But not anymore. Not with you and your cops carrying in such scum off the streets. The people you bring in don't need my help. You just send them here because the prison won't take them."

Arkham was so consumed by his rant that he didn't notice the Batman take two more steps towards us. "So maybe I released the inmates and allowed them to run amuck in the asylum but all of this is your fault, Batman. You've been poisoning this place for years now. But no longer."

Numerous things happened at once. Foreseeing Arkham's murderous impulse, I threw my hands up to his which pressed the knife to my throat. Taking the doctor by surprise, I was able to position a hand before the blade my already bleeding neck. At the same time, Batman leaped forward. What happened next was a complete blur to me. I had somehow managed to pull the knife from the doctor's hand. With Arkham's main concern being the attacking Batman, I easily jerked myself from his grasp but doing so caused me to lose my balance.

I stumbled but didn't fall. When I turned around to see what had become of the Batman and the doctor, I was once again greeted with Jeremiah Arkham coming towards me. In an impulsive movement, I swung the knife out in front of me. I didn't mean to do it. I didn't know how close he was or even where I was aiming. But the blade connected with Arkham's throat. I had used just enough forced to actually slit his throat. But the cut was too low and too shallow to kill him instantly. Instead, I got a face full of blood before the coughing doctor collapsed to the ground. Blood began to pour out onto the concrete from the wound as Arkham made horrible gasping noises as he slowly began to bleed to death.

Even after the Batman turned me away from the writhing body, I could still see the blood spilling out and collecting in perfectly shaped pools in my head. I don't remember how I got into the back of ambulance. Or who placed a heavy red blanket over my shoulders. My mind had the death and suffering of Jeremiah Arkham on repeat and I couldn't find the off switch. I wasn't sure what was more traumatizing; the way the doctor died or the fact that I had killed him. I had killed people before but that wasn't really me. It was the Joker. But Arkham was all me. And I wasn't buying the self-defense notion I heard being muttered around me. Batman was there. He was five feet away. Arkham was weaponless. But for some reason, my body felt the need to swing the knife out in front of me. I had no excuse.


	13. Truth

I spent an entire week in the hospital even though there was nothing seriously wrong with me, physically at least. I spend those seven days being checked out mentally and emotionally. After I had been diagnosed with post-traumatic stress disorder and given a number for the shrink and a prescription of pills, I was allowed to leave. Gordon had been my only visitor. Bruce Wayne was in Berlin for a conference of some sort and Batman never showed his face.

The heat wave had broken while I was in the hospital, so I walked to my apartment instead of talking the busy midday bus. Even though it was only a little past noon when I got home, I went straight to bed after locking the windows and closing the blinds. I slept but I didn't rest.

I awoke just before midnight to rain colliding against the windows. After trying to force myself back to sleep, I finally climbed out of bed and wondered into the kitchen. I pulled out a bottle of wine from the cupboard, popped the cork and took a sip directly from the bottle. I was set on sending myself back to sleep one way or another. To past the time while I was still conscious, I sorted through the large amount of mail I had received during my visit to the madhouse.

Most of it was junk mail and old newspapers, the newest of which informed me that over fifty inmates, including the Joker and Pamela Isley, had managed to escape on the fateful night. A small envelope stated that I was behind on my electric bill. I took another drink of wine. Buried beneath a bank statement and an advertisement for Gotham's newest public park, was a square purple envelope with only my name on it, written in perfect calligraphy. No return address or postage stamp. Someone had personally dropped the envelope into my mailbox.

Without putting the bottle down, I opened the mysterious letter. I had an idea who it was from the moment I saw it. I hated being right. The envelope was thin for it only contained a single piece of paper which was folded in half. The paper had a yellow tint to it, giving the letter a more personal touch. After taking another drink I unfolded the paper.

Written in the same script as my name on the front of the envelope were two sentences and an initial.

_Through humor, you can soften some of the worst blows that life delivers. And once you find laughter, no matter how painful your situation might be, you can survive it. – J _

Even though I had my suspicions as to who had written the letter, I still dropped the wine bottle as I read the last letter. It shattered on the tile floor and the red wine rushed over my bare feet.

"Who is it from?" A deep voice said from across the room. I jumped but when my feet came back into contact with the floor, they slipped on the wine and out from under me. I fell backwards and my head hit the edge of the counter on the way down. I landed on my rear, in the puddle of red wine with an immense headache.

"Are you okay?" Batman, who had appeared at my side during my fall, asked.

Without looking at him, I rubbed my head cautiously. "No." I breathed. My answer went beyond Batman's contextual question. When I answered, I was taking about my emotional health, not my physical wellbeing. But that was before I saw my foot. "I have a piece of glass in my foot." I sighed, turning my head to the masked man.

I averted my glaze as Batman removed the glass shard from the bottom of my left foot. A minute later, I was being carried to the living room. I gave no protest as I was set gently in an armchair and Batman began to sew the small cut in my foot. "What are you doing here?" I asked after a minute. "Shouldn't you be out there? Tracking down the escaped inmates." I finished in a bored tone as Batman began to wrap my foot.

"I don't need to track them down. They'll make an appearance sooner or later. Probably sooner." He wasn't talking in his usual voice. His voice was smooth and quiet instead of hoarse. It was his real voice. "As for you…everything that has happened to you has been my fault." When he was finished aiding my foot, he carefully placed it back onto the cold wooden floor.

"Who are you?" I asked unceremoniously after a few minutes of silence. I was just thinking out loud. The Batman stood up his to full height and turned his back to me. I watched in a mild state of terror as he raised his hands up to his mask and pulled it completely off.

All I could see was his ruffled black hair. Ignoring the pain from my foot, I stood up and placed a hand on the Batman's shoulder after limping across the floor. A minute passed before I began to turn him around. He willing followed my suggestion until we stood face to face.

Bruce Wayne had never looked so vulnerable to me. His hair, which had been disheveled by his mask, wasn't the only thing not in its usual state. His eyes were a bit bloodshot and gave Bruce the appearance that he hadn't been sleeping well. They were also lacking any emotion at all. As was the rest of his face. And not to mention how out of place he looked wearing Batman's costume while standing in my living room. Then it hit me. It hit me like a ton of bricks right in the stomach. Bruce Wayne was Batman. Or was Batman Bruce Wayne?

It felt like the entire emotional spectrum occurred within me at the same time. Shock. Disbelief. Awe. Anguish. Each emotion pulled my heart and twisted my stomach in a different direction. My mind could barely keep up. Bruce Wayne. A friend, my only friend, had been directly responsible for what had happened to me the past two weeks. A friend had put me in harm's way. A friend had purposely exploited my past in order to gain information, which was now of no real use. My friend had lied to me. My friend had promised to protect me and failed.

I didn't know what to do. So, I did the first thing that popped in my head. I raised my right hand and swiped it across Bruce's face. The sound echoed throughout the room. I regretted it the moment my hand made contact. I was sure the impact had hurt my hand more than his face plus I found the action completely childish. But I didn't know what to do or say. I could feel tears start to build up in the corners of my eyes. Soon they began to fall down my cheeks. Bruce remained silence and unmoving. After a few more than awkward seconds, I did the only my heart would allow me to do. I hugged him.

It was more like I threw myself at him. I think the hug shocked Bruce more than my slap. He was probably expecting a slap. I tossed my arms around his neck before burying my tear-ridden face in the nape of his neck. Because of the height difference my toes were hardly touching the ground. To compensate, Bruce cautiously lowered himself into a sitting position against the wall. I, being considerably smaller, maneuvered myself into a comfortable yet untraditional sitting stance in Bruce's lap while never removing my embrace from his neck and shoulder.

The tears stop after about five minutes but I didn't move. Finally, Bruce spoke. "Marie, why are you crying?" He asked quietly and carefully.

Still not moving, I answered in what I was sure would be a muffled voice to him. "Because you're an asshole." I could feel Bruce's heart beat regain some normalcy at my reply. He had interpreted my answer, and tone, as good enough proof that I hadn't completely lost control of everything. I wasn't sure if he was right or if I was getting better at pretending to be okay.

"I thought that was what the slap was for?" He said lightheartedly. Even though it was a joke, Bruce didn't dare laugh in such an unstable and foreign situation.

I thought for a moment before removing my face from the corner of his neck and staring at the wall instead. Tear became to flow again but this time much more slowly than and not as loudly as before. I traced the edge of Bruce's suit, the spot where the main body and mask are meant to meet, with my left ring finger before taking a deep breath. I used my other hand to brush away the tears before they left my face. I exhaled and closed my eyes. A quick moment passed. "I love you, Bruce." I said softly.


	14. Worry

I felt Bruce's body become ridge around me but only for a brief second. Closing my eyes, I mentally punched myself. This was a slightly inappropriate moment to profess your love for someone. My love, which indeed it was, was inappropriate in itself. Bruce was over ten years older than me. He was my employer. He was Bruce Thomas Wayne, a billionaire magnate who apparently spent his free time fighting Gotham's crime while dressed as a bat. I was Victoria Marie Bradley, a secretary with a criminal background who has been repeatedly harassed by a delusional clown while trying to keep her sanity intact. We were friends. We had sex a couple of times. But an actual relationship? It would never work.

Bruce leaned forward, causing me to look him in the face. His brown eyes began to scan my face, looking for something that probably wasn't there. The only thing he found was sincerity and a number of tears. He raised a gloved hand to my face and lightly brushed an escaped tear from my cheek. "Marie, I…" He started before thinking better of it. My stomach twisted even more. Then a wave of determination swept over Bruce's face.

He nearly knocked my backwards when he pushed his lips to mine. I was completely taken aback, probably just as Bruce was at my initial statement. I gladly took the kiss as an unspoken, "I love you too", and so I returned his kiss. 

I straightened the stack of papers before closing the file and locking it in my desk drawer. It had been a month since my heart to heart with Bruce Wayne, who was officially on a business trip to Asia. But Batman was now working day and night to recapture all the escaped inmates and to deal with the everyday crime. He also insisted that I stay at Wayne Manor until the city was safe. Or as safe as Gotham would ever be.

The heat wave had been replaced by numerous thunder and rainstorms. Though it wasn't raining at the time when I exited Wayne Tower, the street and sidewalks were still covered in the evidence of recent rains. My hair was now cut to an extreme boyish length. Bruce's hair was now longer than my own. I had also relapsed and decided to trade my natural red in for a dark auburn color. All physical evidence of my trip into Arkham Asylum was gone. I had not manage to pick up anymore scars to join the one engraved on my arm.

I buttoned my raincoat before walking towards the corner in search of a taxi. As I opened the door of one and prepared to save myself from the oncoming rain, I spotted a man across the street. I didn't recognize him, but I knew what he was even before he brought the camera to his eye and furiously began to snap pictures. Since the excitement and public interest regarding the 'Arkham Riots' have waivered, some of less-than-respectable new sources had fallen back on their typical targets; the famous. That meant Bruce Wayne but more importantly Bruce Wayne's love life which, at the current moment, involved me.

The tabloids had yet to find anything incredibly new or noteworthy about our relationship besides the fact that I was, indeed, living at Wayne Manor. My criminal record had been deleted from all records, as a result of my agreement with Gordon and the late Harvey Dent, and my involvement with the Arkham Riots was never recorded and my fake attendance files at the asylum were destroyed. Only a hand full of policemen and criminals knew about my past. And my mother but she didn't worry me. I wasn't particularly concerned about reporters digging up my past. I just didn't like the attention they were giving me. I hoped they would see my age and occupation as a large enough of a scandal to prevent them from going any deeper than that. I hoped the photographers would keep their distance.

The rain had started as I arrived at Wayne Manor. Bruce wasn't there. It had been almost three days since I had last seen him. Alfred had seen him. He had made numerous visits to the 'Bat Cave' but I didn't journey there. I didn't even know where it was. This was a personal choice of mine. I figured the less I knew the saver we all would be. After changing clothes and declining Alfred's offer of food, I sat down in front of the television. Normally, at my apartment, I would be lounging on the couch with a bag of chips and beer but Bruce's furniture felt too delicate for that. Instead, I sat with my back straight, one foot strictly placed on the floor and the other leg crossed over the opposite. I was comfortable enough but it was still a bit foreign to me.

Mike Engel had moved to national news the previous year and had been replaced by a sour looking blonde in her mid-thirties. I was pretty sure she was GCN's attempt to draw in younger viewers. Her yellow hair was hair sprayed and shaped so it didn't move, much like the women's facial expressions. My heart lost some its heaviness when they opened the show with the weather. If something horrible had occurred within the city, it would have surpassed the weather on the set list.

I stopped really listening as the sportscaster discussed the changes the Gotham Rogues' were taking to prepare for next season. Another day had passed without mention of the Batman, which I supposed was a good thing. I was ready to take Alfred up on his food offer when the news lady spoke a name which brought my attention back to the television. "And even though he is not currently in the country, Bruce Wayne is back in the news. Prior to his trip to Asia, the billionaire entrepreneur and philanthropist had been seen in the company of a young woman named Victoria Bradley." A picture flashed onto the screen. Going from the angle and my attire, I assumed it had been taken today by the photographer I seen across the street. I silently thanked them for picking a decent picture. "Well, as it turns out, Ms. Bradley, age 21, has not only moved into Wayne Manor on the east side of the city but she is also Mr. Wayne's secretary."

The news lady continued to give the viewers a brief biography of my life. She mentioned my father and the fact that I obtained my GED outside of high school. "Neither party has yet to comment on their relationship." I resisted the urge to throw the remote through the television. Instead, I pushed myself off the couch and wondered angrily though the house in search of my laptop. _I'll give you a comment._I thought rudely as I entered the kitchen where Alfred was.

"I'm assuming you watched the news too." He said while cutting a tomato.

As a show of defeat, I sat down at the island and placed my head against the cold granite. "What do I do, Alfred?" I asked after a minute.

"Well, you could send them an angry letter, like you were planning. But that would only encourage them." Alfred said in his thin British accent. "Wayne Enterprises has plenty of PR personnel. Let them deal with it."

"Do you ever worry about him?" I asked in pointless whisper without raising my head off the counter.

After a moment the butler answered. "Batman can take care of himself." I awkwardly nodded my head in agreement. "Though I do worry about Master Wayne."


	15. Change

It had been almost a week since I left the manor. Bruce's public relations team felt it would be best if I stayed out of the public eye, or rather the eye of the media. Apart from Bruce's two visits, my only social interaction had been with Alfred. And while Batman had managed to catch the majority of the escaped inmates, including Jonathan Crane, the Joker was still on the loose. But that didn't stop me from sneaking out of the mansion at noon on a cloudy Saturday to escape the confines and loneliness of the limestone building.

Dressed in inconspicuous clothing, ones which did not make me look like an acquaintance of Bruce Wayne, I took a taxi to the mall downtown where I spent a number of hours shopping aimlessly without purchasing anything. The mall and downtown in general were crowded with a mixture of the weekend crowd and summer crowd who were taking advantage of the more mild temperatures and current lack of rain. On a whim, I dyed my hair a blonde, almost white, color at a small salon within the mall. I was relapsing into my former indecisiveness in regards to hair color. I thought about just shaving all of it off and starting from scratch but that seemed a bit extreme, even for me.

Still emptied handed, I left the mall on the Park Avenue side and decided to find a place for a late lunch. Unfortunately, I walked straight into Mister Charles Blakely upon rounding a corner. I bounced rather roughly off the businessman and stumbled back a few feet and I instantly became aware of the man's hand placed gently on my upper left arm in an apparent attempt to prevent a fall. Blakely was dressed in his usual suit but it did not appear as though he had been working this weekend. In order to ward off any more discomfort the situation already provided, I quickly apologized. "Pardon me, Mr. Blakely." I added a smile for sincerity.

"That's quite alright, Marie." A moment of annoyance stirred in my stomach at the man's casual use of my name. "And please, it's just 'Charles'. How are you and Bruce?" Blakely asked with a smile. His hand was still on my arm and I wished he would remove it. I also noted the way he said 'you and Bruce', as in reference to our personal relationship which had taken up more than its share of news reel and print.

"I'm great. Bruce is still on a business trip in Asia, but he should be back in Gotham by next week." I spoke as Wayne's secretary. The small talk continued and I become more and more uneasy with the length of our exchange. Blakely attracted just as much media attention as Bruce and the longer I stood on the sidewalk taking to the man, the higher the chance of someone spotting us and snapping a picture. After almost ten minutes of conversation, I was finally able to get away by stating that I had a meeting to attend at Wayne Tower. This was a complete lie and I'm sure Blakely saw straight through it. But he did not question my honesty as we said our goodbyes and walked in opposite directions.

I ate at a small nondescript Chinese restaurant a few blocks away from my run in with Charles Blakely. From there, I headed to my apartment. It seemed like forever ago since I was last there and I was in need of a change of attire. Thicker clouds moved over Gotham, blocking out the sun and threating another round of rain. I was dodging rain drops as I jogged into my apartment building. My apartment was just as I left it: in a mess.

After going through the stack of mail, which thankfully did not contain anything but white envelopes, I started in the kitchen. There were a number of expired food products in my refrigerator and a pile of dishes in the sink. As I set about cleaning the apartment, my mind began to wonder. From Blakely to Bruce to Batman to Arkham and its whole affair. I was throwing dirty clothes into a basket when my thoughts got dangerously close to reliving once again what had occurred on the roof of the asylum. To switch its' direction, I flipped on the television and turned the volume up.

After a few minutes, the animated femaleanchor's voice filled the apartment. "And we have new details tonight on Victoria Bradley, the secretary and apparent girlfriend of billionaire Bruce Wayne. Miss Bradley was seen today in the company of another business mogul, Charles Blakely." I stopped messing with my clothes long enough to see a short montage of photos displaying my brief encounter with the man. The woman continued with a telling of the information, some more factual than others, behind the pictures. She ended the segment with a simple yet rather opinionated and bias statement. "Mr. Wayne is currently out of the country on business but Miss Bradley appears to be enjoying the company of Gotham's other wealthy men."

There was a large amount of assumption in her voice, but I paid no attention to her notions or those of her viewers as I continued about my cleaning. It began to rain harder when I took a break and leaned against the kitchen counter. It seemed so petty to worry about how the public perceived me. I was certain there were worse beliefs to be speculated than my apparent lax relationships with men. There were so many worse, and more factual, opinions that could be made of me. I should be lucky the media had to resort to gossip instead of actual details about me and my life. I was slightly surprised, but thankful, that they had yet to pay any attention to the scar on my arm. The city, and perhaps the nation, would have a field day if they what exactly was in my past or who I use to be.

Who I use to be? Was I no longer the girl who worked for the mob by stealing things they could not? When did I stop being the person who once killed two men? I wasn't that person anymore. I couldn't pinpoint the exact moment, but I was sure I had changed. Changed for the better, I hoped.

"She's still in there, you know." The Joker said from his position to my right. I hadn't noticed him until he spoke and I wasn't sure how long he had been there, leaning against the counter in a stance too similar to mine to be coincidence.

I flinched, but I made no move to run away because I knew it would be pointless so I decided to save myself the pain. "Who?" I asked in an even tone. I didn't look at him as I spoke; I stared straight ahead into the living room.

"The wonderful girl I meant three years ago. But she's wasting her time with a loser who brushes his teeth six times a day." He ended the sentence with a laugh.

"I don't know what you're talking about."

"Come on, kid. You may be able to fool lover-boy, but not me. I know you too well." Another short snort of a laugh.

A brief wave of anger swirled in my chest. "You don't know anything about me!"

Even though I didn't see it, I knew the Joker was rolling his eyes. "You can't change who you are. That's why you change your hair so often. Your looks are the one thing you can change. But a different color doesn't produce a different you, no matter how hard you try." With the last syllable, he pushed himself off the counter and stepped into my line of view.

He was wearing the same suit he had at the asylum, only it was ironed and wrinkle free. His hair was more of an emerald color than the grimy green I was used to. It was clean and combed back out of his face, which was newly painted with make-up. The Joker caught me eyeing his new look. He took a step back, posed and said, "Aren't I just good enough to eat?"

Now that he wasn't between me and the door, I took a swing at him. I caught him off guard and my fist collided with his painted white nose. Something cracked, and I was certain it was my hand, but I ignored it and darted for the door. I made it to hallway outside my apartment before a bleeding Joker came barreling after me.


	16. Burning

The Joker lunged and managed to grab hold of my feet. I nearly bashed my head against the handrail of the staircase as I fell to the ground. Together, we rolled around on the hallway floor, both trying to gain control of the other. I started to wonder how long before the other residents would become aware of our brawl, since we both were shouting a number of abuses and obscenities at each other. I managed to pull my legs up and push the Joker off. Unfortunately, he used my force against me and, using the momentum, he rolled on to his back with his hands locked around my wrists which caused me to roll with him.

I came to a stop on top of him and the Joker immediately wrapped his legs around my midsection, locking me in place. As I struggle against my restraints, the Joker just laid there was a wide smile on his face. "Get off me!" I said after a minute. I heard a door open and close upstairs and I was certain more than one person was looking in on our scuffle. I just hope someone had the brains to call the police.

"I hate to bug about position, sweetie, but you're the one on top." The Joker said before digressing into laughter. With better aim than I had with my hand moments earlier, I pushed my head sharply forward, hitting the Joker roughly on the forehead. He let go and I scrambled for the stairs. But he caught me and this time I was pinned to the floor.

The Joker's makeup was now messy and his nose bloody from our wrestling match. Both of us were breathing heavy. I had no idea what his plan was. I doubted that he was going to killing in the third floor hallway of my apartment complex. There was no punch line, unless the Joker was going for irony. "What'd I ever do to you?" The Joker said, seemingly taking great offense to my last attack. "You can't blame me for that haircut of yours." Again he finished his sentence with more laughter.

I tried to head-butt him again, but he easily dodged it, still laughing. Exhausted, I yelled, "What do you want?"

The Joker quit laughing so suddenly, I was sure anger had taken its place. But he was silent and his face vacant of emotion for a few moments. "What do I want?" He repeated, thinking. "All I've ever wanted... is to have a good time. And to annoy Batman, whenever possible, of course. And to one day murder Batman and defile his carcass. And a pony."

"And what category does this fall into?" I asked referring to our current state. Where were the police? And where was the Batman?

"Don't try and tell me you're not enjoying yourself. Pssh. But this is definitely an 'annoy Batman' kind of day." His smile slowly faded away. "What's taking him so long…?" The Joker thought out loud to himself. He stared at me looking for an answer. I watched his eyes move over the word engraved on my right arm.

The knife he drew from his pocket reflected in the fluorescent lights of the hallway. I was screaming before the knife cut my skin, this time on my left arm. Again, the pain and panic wasn't enough to send me into blackness, as I would have liked. I kicked and pushed again his body trying to get him to stop. With my free hand, I grabbed a handful of the Joker's hair and pulled. Instead, this awarded me with a long but shallow cut across my face. Tears mixed with the blood as they journeyed down my face as I reserved myself to the knife's slashing.

Abruptly, the Joker's weight and the feeling of his knife cutting my flesh were gone, leaving behind a sharp but steadily disappearing pain which was soon to be replaced by numbness. A few moments passed before I had the energy to sit up. My arm was covered in blood, which was still flowing from the cuts. The cuts looked random and no words were visible underneath the blood. I looked around the hallway, but there was no one there. I was alone apart from the broken window which looked down on the street below. Pieces of glass covered the floor around me. I wasn't sure what to do as I tried to pull myself up with the handrail. By the time my balance returned allowing me to stand with support, I heard a number of footsteps climbing the stairs. A moment later, the hallway was full of policemen.

I gave no protest as someone, a young police officer, picked me up gently in his arms and began to carry me downstairs and outside where an ambulance was waiting. I let my mind wonder as I sat in the ambulance, though I made sure it didn't wonder anywhere near recent events. Instead, it went to my parents. I hadn't spoken to my mother in over three years. Before my resignation from the mob. I wondered what she thought of my current life, the one she saw through the eyes of the jealous news anchor and annoying photographers. Did she miss me? Or did she even acknowledge in her mind that I was her daughter? Was she happy? Did I care?

Next was my father. My poor father who's final resting place had been a mausoleum in Gotham Cemetery which had been paid for by the police force. I was only fourteen when my father was killed on duty during a traffic stop. Three months later, his name was inscribed on the 'Fallen Heroes' Memorial outside the City Council Building. But in truth, my mother had killed my father long before that criminal did. My father loved her and, perhaps, she loved him at some point. But after he discovered that my mother had cheated, something which I sadly knew before him, he died inside. My father never confronted her about it and she, unaware that he knew the truth, continued the affair even after his death. After that, I started to make a conscious effort everyday not to become my mother.

But those efforts somehow lead me down a darker road than I had anticipated. Regrettably, the road away from my mother was also the road away from my father. Sometimes, I was glad my father wasn't here to see the mess I had made of my life. My life was still a mess even though my illegal activities had ceased. It seemed the more I tried to make up for my former life, the more trouble I caused for my new one. The Joker was the fuel for the fire which burnt the pillars holding up my respectable life.

The Joker was a different type of crazy. The Joker was aware of the world around him. He knew he was working outside of normal moral and social codes. In fact, that was his goal; to live without rules. But by deciding to live without rules, the Joker acknowledged the [i]existence[/i] of rules. He was aware that he worked outside the boundaries of society. So only by a society which sees the lines of right and wrong and which acts within in a moral or ethical code would consider the Joker 'crazy'. The Joker probably would never be clinically diagnosed as 'insane'. He just decided not to live within society's rules. An extreme homicidal non-conformist.

The Joker was an unstoppable force. He was manic and mad; gleefully destructive, like a hurricane tentatively held together inside fragile meat and skin, trying to be a person and just barely managing it. On the other end, trying to save my life in both the physical and metaphorical sense was the Batman. An unmovable object. He was patient and enduring; an incorruptible hunter. And when they meet, that unstoppable force and the unmovable object, the world burns around them. The world was Gotham City, once burning from the corrupted center out but now fires, small but just as intense, dotted the city's exterior. The world was me, burning both from the outside in and inside out.

Bandages covered my arm and face as I sat behind Alfred who drove though the burning city as though he was unaware of the invisible fires which posed a great peril to those within. But fires could be extinguished, whether with rain or blood, and burnt building could be rebuilt and the damage repaired. Nothing was impossible and nothing irreversible. And as the sun, that had been too afraid to fully show its face in this city, started to turn the grey into black, I smiled. Not out of happiness. But because I knew that one day, the fires would be no more. One day, I could stop running. Stop hiding. Because one day he would win. One day, there would be no pain, no loss, and no crime. Because of him, because he fought. Not for me, but for us.

One day, the Batman would win.

The End


End file.
